


Angels Fall From Blinding Heights

by blacktail



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: AU - Serial Killer, M/M, SERIAL KILLER AU., Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-26
Updated: 2012-11-26
Packaged: 2017-11-19 14:49:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/574443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blacktail/pseuds/blacktail
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Serial killer AU, by request!</p><p>Bond has always been a lone killer, globetrotting his way through victims that could never be traced, hunting across the world. Someone wants in on his gig.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Angels Fall From Blinding Heights

There’s something sweet when James can dump the body. His leather gloves are bloody. He took a lot of pleasure from this one, used his fists. The poor uni bloke’s own mum wouldn’t recognize him, the way his face looks after that kind of treatment. Bond cleans everything, perfectly, and disposes of the body secretly and efficiently. He enjoys a glass of Cognac to himself, riding the calm, flushed high.

He doesn’t quite understand when, the next day, a very neatly wrapped little box with a pinky finger arrives in his apartment. The pinky of his last kill, according to the matching tattoo. He thrums in worry, but intrigue. The police aren’t exactly authorized to play cat and mouse. When Bond goes to book his flight out of the country, a messenger program he never installed pops up.

  * _Your work has always carried with it a certain elegance._
  * _Hard week?_



He hesitates, unsettled.

  * Who are you?
  * _For me to know and you to find out._
  * _I know you’re a good deal more clever than that, Bond._



He turns the laptop off, buys his ticket at the airport, and disappears.

There’s a lady tied up in the hotel room when he arrives in Munich. Gagged, sedated, according to her pulse. A mobile dings and vibrates on the neatly made single bed.

  * _You hide like the best of them._
  * _You’re one of the ones they won’t catch._
  * _You can take your shoes off and relax._



Bond looks around casually, trying to seem like he’s observing the hotel room calmly. The phone buzzes again.

  * _Microcameras. Really now. You won’t find the pinhole with a casual look._



He keeps quiet, muscles tense in his nice suit, and he touches the unconscious woman’s exposed clavicles. She’s quite pretty. Bond would love to know how she got here.

“Is this another present?”

  * _I thought I would provide you something to work with, this time._



“Where are you?”

The bathroom door opens and James has his gun out. A boy. Young man, dark hair, glasses, in a cardigan and Oxfords. Everything in James is coiled and grated exactly the wrong way. He’s a lone predator, and here’s a pup dropping meat in front of him.

“Quite necessary. I understand the precautions you need to take.” The fledgling closes his phone and places it in a pocket, it’s all he does with his hands before folding them in front of him. He stands up to inspection admirably. “I’ve been waiting to find a rendezvous point. I thought, sooner rather than later.”

“You thought wrong. Now I’ll just have two bodies to clean up.” Because the lad’s voice is too sweet and posh. He looks like a crazy. He looks like those quiet young men who build entire fantasy worlds of sick violence in over-active minds. James looks like a potential convict, bench pressing in a prison yard. But this one looks like the calm, well put together, organized type with telltale hearts under his floor boards instead of porno mags.

“Now, now. We have so very much in common, James Bond.”

“Who are you?”

“Q.”

“That isn’t a name.”

“Quartermaster.” His sharp, thin lips spread in a knife smile of amusement. An officer responsible for providing supplies. What a joke.

“This isn’t some game in your mother’s basement where you roll the dice and—”

"I’ve been tracking you since Ghana. You remember Ghana, don’t you? The visiting student who never went home, but you did. After Ghana was Libya. New Orleans threw me for a bit of a loop, I didn’t know what to search for yet when you go to ground—”

"How?”

“Every contact leaves a trace. There’s no such thing as no trail, James.”

“Computers?”

“My forte. May I join you this evening?” The slightest crinkle at the edges of cold sea eyes. He wants it very badly. Bond wouldn’t be surprised if he were a part of the fantasy as much as…was Q a killer, too?

“Join me?” Q walks forward, settles his hands on the woman’s shoulders as if they’re taking a family photo. “In your work.”

Bond doesn’t shiver. It’s a heavy moment. He’s always considered the kill intensely private, to be shared. Monogamous, in a sense. Yet, he has an exhibitionist streak. Dangerous public sex, the thrill of being seen or caught. Sharing that intimacy. Will he participate, or observe, the way he has been since…Ghana. Over a year now.

“What are you in it for?” Bond doesn’t lower his gun, or his eyes, but there is give in the questioning. Not quite an offer. An opportunity, maybe.

“Satiation.”

“Mental? Physical?” Sexual?

“Yes.” Q’s answer is light, almost amused. “What would you like to hear? That I’m in it for the same reasons you are, to quiet some reckless, thirsty animal inside? Hardly. It’s more of an itch, really. An itch that, unscratched, just…spreads and spreads.”

“Sounds like a personal problem,” Bond comments. Q smiles. Bond finds it attractive, and like that the tilt hits them, the moment of change. Q’s fingers on the woman’s neck are too frighteningly intimate to be falsified. James has to wonder, has he ever strangled anyone? He doesn’t look strong enough, he doesn’t have the weight for it, but he is a surprise at each turn.

There is blood (caught on plastic and in containers, so messy and so clean, Q is prepared and clinical and hard) and quiet little sounds from the mark. They share the experience like sharing dinner, but when Bond gets brutal, Q backs off. Bond only comes out of his zone of breaking things under him when he hears the first quiet moan. Looking over, he finds Q sprawled in a plush armchair, his belt undone and long fingers wrapped around his cock. The glove he wore is between his teeth, bitten tightly. His lanky body undulates under his hand and Bond is hit with such a potent wave of lust that he abandons busting his knuckles on bone.

He grabs the interloper and throws him onto the bed. Q gasps. His pupils are blown, and Bond throws his glasses to get a better look at them. Quartermaster’s face ticks in intense aggravation, but Bond takes his cock in hand and jerks roughly, rubbing Q’s foreskin over his head and earning a beautiful moan from his dark-haired attendant.

“Rough,” Q pants.

Bond can do rough.

Clothes don’t even come off. It’s a belts-off pants-open shag, and after he shoves his cock down Q’s throat, a few times, he throws him against the head of the bed and pushes his way inside to the most gratifying soundtrack of whimpers and groans and wet, pained pants he’s ever heard. Bond fucks him, and Q fucks back. Bond palms him and Q practically sings. There’s blood on them, and saliva, and very shortly semen. Natural bodily fluids that neither of them mind spilling.

James does not simply pull out and leave him. He kisses the man’s neck, his cheek, and breathes. He rolls over to avoid crushing the smaller man, and pulls him close, strokes his hair and huffs a laugh against Q’s smooth, pale skin. Bond would usually wait until hours or a day after, find someone, and ride out the lingering adrenaline. He doesn’t violate his victims like that, it’s easy enough to find someone more than willing, and he always thought it would tarnish the experience.

But putting someone under him, right in the middle of it?

That has him floored. He strokes Q’s slim body and the younger one sighs with relief and satisfaction, rubs James’s chest. James decides this is something he wants, and James Bond simply takes what he wants.

“Come with me,” he states, very calmly. A business proposal.

“I thought I just did?” Q quips, and they both smirk at each other, naked and sweaty with a broken and bloody body five feet away, making it all the better.


End file.
